Lady of Fire

Eleanor stood on the deck and watched the shore cliffs loom ahead. The salt breeze whipped tendrils of hair loose from her braids and bathed her face with its coolness. Her new blue gown clung to her in front and flapped about her legs. Walter de Clare stood beside her and pointed out the seaport of Dover, a mere speck in the distance. The fog had lifted and only a few clouds hung over head.

After weeks of hiding and hours spent cramped in a crate of silk, she felt suddenly free. An expanse of ocean, no matter how narrow, stood between her and Robert of Belesme and provided a sense of relief she had not felt since Roger carried her out of Rouen. She had to smile over their final escape—Henry and Walter had supervised the loading of Henry's cargo beneath the noses of Belesme's agents, allowing them to inspect as much as they wanted until the men lost interest in the later crates and left the deck. Then Walter's men had loaded those containing Eleanor and Roger into the hold. It had been hot and miserable for a short time until the lids were pried off and they were released to come up.

They'd sailed without final clearance when word spread on the docks that Belesme himself was coming. Walter's flagship, the Triumph, was a swift vessel, and an easy match for the boarding ship that set out to stop her. Walter had only had to stand on his deck and shout across the widening gap that he had clearance from the Duke of Normandy to sail and there was nothing Belesme or his agents could do.

"Art quiet, cousin," Walter chided.

" 'Tis a strange land," she answered.

"Aye, but overrun with Normans now, and not as strange as it once was. William Rufus had a firm hold on the country and there is peace."

"Will I like it?"

"Aye—it is a pretty place with sloping hills and farms beneath castle walls."

"And no Belesme."

"Nay—Belesme owns much land in England, Eleanor, but he is little there."

"Sweet Mary, will I never be rid of him!"

"Let your brother find you a husband to end the matter. I doubt Robert wants a wife who's lain with another in the marriage bed—he's too proud not to want to be the only man with you." Walter spied Roger coming up and hailed him, "Over here! Look at England!"

Roger came and leaned on the polished rail to let the sea spray in his face. The wind ruffled his blond hair, and sea and sky reflected in his blue eyes. There was a new air about him, a sense of freedom and adventure that did not escape Eleanor. She felt a catch in her throat as she watched him. Jesu, she thought, but a man ought not to look like that—it wasn't fair to a mortal woman. She longed to touch the tousled hair and to run her fingers over the muscles of his back. When he was around now, her whole body was aware of him, and she was conscious of a tension that made a return to their old, easy ways impossible. She tore her eyes away and concentrated on the cliffs ahead.

"When do we dock?" she heard Roger ask Walter.

"About another hour if the wind holds. We'll put the landing boats and the tow ropes down before long."

"Well, Lea"—Roger kept his eyes on the sea below while he addressed her—"another few days and we should be at Harlowe. Then you can decide what you want to do."

"Oh, aye—among strangers in a strange land," she answered with unwonted sarcasm, and could have bitten back the words even as she said them. Both men turned to her. She hung her head and traced the grain of the wooden rail with a fingertip to avoid their eyes. "Your pardon—you've risked much to save me and you deserve better from me."

"The choice is still yours, Lea."

"Well, she'll take a husband, of course," Walter answered for her. "What else can she do?"

"I can go back to a convent," she reminded him bitterly.

"You?" Walter eyed her strangely. "Nay, 'twould be a waste, cousin. You should be gracing some lord's castle, attending your household."

"And some lord's bed—is that what you mean, Walter?" Eleanor pushed herself away from the railing and stalked off.

"Jesu! What ails her?"

"She thinks she escapes one prison for another, I suppose. Pay her no heed—she is but restless," Roger answered.

"Aye. How old is she now, anyway? Nineteen? Twenty?"

"Nineteen—she turns twenty in September."

"By now, she should have a babe or two to calm her down. What she needs is a man."

"Tell her that." Roger stared again into the sea and frowned. "But she is so small—scarcely this wide…" He spread his hand as far as it would stretch across. "Women die in childbed, you know."

"And men die in battle. Neither thing keeps women from loving nor men from fighting, does it?" Walter eyed Roger soberly. "What you need to do is just pick the man and present him to her without choice. He­lene came to me a stranger and we are both well satisfied. Your problem is that you worry too much about how she feels."

"Aye, I suppose so." Roger lapsed into silence and watched the furrowing waves below for a time. Finally he straightened up and started to leave.

"Where are you going? We are nearly there."

"To count my money. There are things I would buy her in London before we go to Harlowe."

Instead of presenting himself and Eleanor at Rufus' court as Henry had suggested, Roger took lodging in the city of London for two days and spent his time preparing to face the Earl of Harlowe. He found a tailor willing to work day and night to make two suits of clothing for himself and two new dresses for Eleanor. It would not do, he reasoned, to show up at Richard de Brione's gate like pensioners asking for succor.

The day they left London, Roger made a stop at a goldsmith's and purchased a gold filigree hair case and girdle and a silver fillet for Eleanor and tucked them away in his pack bags. He would either use them as marriage gifts or would give them to her on her birth anniversary, depending on which occasion came first. Eleanor had been as wide-eyed as a child in London, and it had pleased him to take her by barge down the Thames past the White Tower, to the open markets where all sorts of goods were hawked, and through the narrow streets. They prayed at the Confessor's tomb in Westminster and marveled at his church. It had been a pleasant time for both of them, a time much like those they'd shared before his revelation. London had been a sweet lull from a tense adventure.

They rode across England as themselves: Roger, called FitzGilbert, and Eleanor, daughter to the Count of Nantes. They broke their journey at priories along the way, staying in separate chambers and maintaining the strictest propriety. He'd meant what he'd said at Walter's—he wanted her but he would not ask her again. By day, he laughed, teased, and listened as he had done most of her life, but by night, he went his separate way.

On 3 August, 1092, they drew up beneath the shadow of Harlowe. It was an imposing fortress that loomed huge and forbidding, on an island surrounded by a lake. It was a military masterpiece, nearly inaccessible from the outside, that dominated the countryside around it. Commissioned by the Conqueror as a symbol of Norman authority in a conquered land, Harlowe stood guard over the convergence of roads linking Wales to England. To the west lay the lands of the marcher lords; to the east lay Stamford and Belvoir.

Eleanor looked upward to the high ramparts of the curtain wall and across to the corner towers that crowded water's edge. "Sweet Mary, Roger—this is where you would bring me?"

He followed her line of vision and was nearly as awestruck as she. "Aye," he managed. " 'Tis large, isn't it?"

"Large? Nay…'tis bigger than Curthose's palace at Rouen." She scanned the fortress ahead and shook her head. "Roger, are you certain we will be welcomed?"

"We shall see." He spurred his horse to the floating bridge and urged the unwilling animal across. "Follow me, Lea," he called back from the security of solid ground.

Above him, a man in the gatehouse shouted down, "By Earl Richard's authority, I ask your business here!"

Roger shaded his eyes to look up and answer, "Roger, Lord of the Condes, come to see the earl!"

"He is away!"

"We seek beds!" Roger gestured to Eleanor, who still crossed the unsteady bridge.

The face in the window above drew back. Slowly the huge iron gate creaked upward as the cogs turned the chains that held it. It stopped, suspended high enough to allow a horse and rider to pass beneath its spiked bars. Eleanor caught up and together they entered through the narrow gateway into the open area beyond. A second wall some fifty feet inward rose to form the main portion of the stronghold. Another set of corner towers dominated this wall also. Again, a heavy iron gate was lifted and guards stepped forward with shields lifted. In the center of them walked an older man wearing the symbolic key of the seneschal.

Roger nudged his horse forward until he was nearly even with them. "I have business with Earl Richard. We come from Normandy." He reached into the purse at his belt and drew out a piece of parchment bearing Henry's seal. "Here—Prince Henry vouches for me."

The old man stepped closer to study Roger. "You are Norman, then?" he asked.

"My father is Norman, my mother Saxon."

"And this lady is your wife?"

"Nay, she is Eleanor, daughter to Count Gilbert of Nantes. We are but lately arrived in England."

"I see." If the seneschal thought it odd that a well-dressed young lord came unattended with an unwed girl of noble birth, he gave no sign. Instead, his face broke into a welcoming smile as he nodded. "Aye, Lord Roger, you are welcome enough here. The earl is not now in residence due to some small trouble at Belvoir, but I will send word to him that he has visitors."

Eleanor leaned across the pommel of her saddle to address the old man. "Will he return soon?"

"I expect him to ride back as soon as he reads my message."

Surrounded by a hastily assembled group of tiring women, Eleanor surveyed herself in the steel mirror held for her. Bathed and dressed in an undertunic of cream silk with an overgown of purple samite, she had to admit even to herself that she looked unusually fine. One of the women had managed to brush her long hair until it had the sheen of fine silk and it hung free to her waist as a symbol of her maidenhood. A braided gold circlet crossed her forehead and testified to her high birth. Satisfied, she stepped back to give a maid room to fold back her wide sleeves so that the fitted cream silk could be seen on her arms. Taking a deep breath, she nodded and prepared to face supper at Harlowe. "I am ready," she announced.

Because of her rank and the dearth of noble guests, supper was a lonely affair for her. Two pages parted company before her as she walked down the corridors, and the entire company rose when she entered the earl's hall. She felt dozens of pairs of eyes on her while she mounted the two steps to the high table and took her place alone. Had the earl been in residence, he would have at least sat with her. She supposed the formality in a household full of men was necessary for her protection, but it made her feel isolated and alone in a strange place. She scanned the hall openly, looking for Roger, and encountered the admiring gaze of a number of men-at-arms and squires fostering at Harlowe. Even Roger stared from his place at the second table.

"I have never seen her like!" the fellow next to him breathed almost reverently.

"Aye, she is much remarked in Normandy also," Roger answered dryly.

"She is your kinswoman?"

"She is not of my blood, but we were reared together at Nantes like brother and sister.

"Jesu, to be alone with one like that—"

"Nay, you'd not dare touch her—she is daughter to Gilbert and heiress to Nantes."

"And I am Chester's firstborn. Aye, I'd dare. Is she betrothed?"

Roger took in the young man's eager stare and liked it not. "Aye," he answered softly, "she is soon to wed."

"A pity." The fellow reluctantly tore his eyes away from Eleanor to look at Roger. "Aye—I'd have asked my father for one such as she." His eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed as he studied his supper partner. "You are of Earl Richard's blood?"

"Aye."

"Your pardon, my lord—I am Rannulf of Chester."

"And I am Roger, lord of the Condes, by vassalage to Robert Curthose of Normandy."

"I would not speak loudly of Curthose here—we are Rufus' men."

Roger shrugged. " 'Tis of little difference to me, Rannulf of Chester—Curthose did but give me what I'd earned. I served the Old Conqueror first and was with him at Mantes ere he died."

"You look too young for such service," Rannulf pointed out skeptically.

"Aye, but I was taken into his train in eighty-five at the age of fifteen—I saw my twenty-third birth anniversary last month."

Before the other man could ply him with questions about Old William, Roger's attention was drawn to a late arrival in the hall. A tall man dressed in an embroidered tunic over mail entered and made his way with authority to the high table where Eleanor sat. His brown hair was touched with gray but his step was that of a man still in his prime. Roger stared hard as though to will him to look down.

"Do not rise, Demoiselle," the newcomer addressed a startled Eleanor. "My apologies for the tardiness of my arrival, but I have been long on the road."

Eleanor gave a start, flushed, and then whitened. "Mother of God!" She involuntarily looked toward Roger.

"Aye, I am Richard de Brione," the earl acknowledged as he followed her gaze, "and he does have the look of me." He took a seat next to her and motioned to a servant behind them for service. "Now, Demoiselle"—he turned his attention fully to her—"you may tell me how it is that I am hosting you at Harlowe when we are unacquainted."

"I am Eleanor of Nantes," she began before pausing to take a breath, "and I do not know why I am here. I mean, my lord, that I know why I am in England, but I do not know why Roger brought me to you."

"I know who you are, Lady Eleanor"—the earl nodded—"for Brian wrote of you to me. I suppose if I would know more, I will have to ask the boy."

"He is no boy, my lord—he is three-and-twenty."

"Your pardon." Richard de Brione's mouth twitched at the corners much as Roger's did sometimes. "I am two-and-forty, you see, and he appears young to me." His blue eyes twinkled with humor and she warmed to him.

"Your pardon, my lord—I did not intend insolence."

"I did not think it, Demoiselle." He pushed her half-finished trencher toward her. "Here—eat your supper and let me eat mine. I will speak to this Roger after I have supped."

She tried to do as he told her, but she was too stunned to taste the rest of her food. The man next to her, a belted earl, bore a strong resemblance to Roger. It did not make sense—she'd never even heard of Richard de Brione until they fled Normandy. She felt compelled to defend Roger to him, but she knew not how to do it.

Earl Richard chewed his food thoughtfully and studied the girl next to him covertly. She was a breathtakingly beautiful child or woman—she was soo small and fine-boned he could not decide her age—and she seemed to have some wits about her. Her quick defense of the boy spoke of an affection that disturbed him. He had no love of Gilbert of Nantes from years back, but he knew the girl's blood set her far above most men. She looked up under long black lashes.

"He may be young to you, my lord, but he is not without means or power in Normandy," she spoke up finally. "When the Old Conqueror came to Nantes, he recognized Roger's worth and took him into his own household, saying bastards should stand together, and he fostered him when my father failed to find him a place. Roger served him well against King Philip of France and was rewarded on the battlefield with his spurs. William knighted him himself when Roger was but seventeen, my lord, because my brother showed his courage. Indeed, Roger was with him at Mantes when he took his final blow."

"Your brother? Nay, he is not Gilbert's spawn."

"Aye—I grew up thinking him my half-brother, but he is not. He did not tell me until after we left Rouen." She raised her eyes to his face and spoke proudly. "But brother or no, he is the best knight, the truest champion I could have."

"Brian—my seneschal—wrote that your Roger called himself Lord of the Condes," Richard prompted.

"Aye, he holds it of Curthose, and other lands as well. Indeed, I think he has some small fiefs in this country from the Old Conqueror, and he is Prince Henry's man also."

"A remarkable career for a bastard, I admit." The earl smiled. "And you, Demoiselle—you interest me. Are you betrothed or wed?" he asked bluntly.

"I am neither. I was dedicated to Holy Church at the age of twelve, my lord."

"I see—yet you do not wear the habit of your vocation."

"Nay, I refused to take my vows—I am unsuited."

"Well, you are too pretty a child to languish within cloisters, Demoiselle."

"I am nineteen, my lord, and will be twenty next month," she told him quietly. "I am but small and despair of growing taller."

Richard de Brione found it hard not to ask how she came to be unattended in the company of a strong and vigorous young man on a journey that must have lasted weeks. She was plainly no harlot—she fairly shone with innocence—and yet she sat at Harlowe with no escort and certainly without her father's blessing. The tale would bear hearing. Aloud he managed, "It would be a pity if you were taller, Lady Eleanor, for full half your beauty is in your fine bones."

"You really think so, my lord?" She seemed to brighten.

"Aye—big men protect small women."

She leaned forward impulsively and fixed him with her large dark eyes. "You are easy to like, my lord. I find you as kind as the Conqueror."

Richard nearly choked at the comparison. It was probably the first time in his memory anyone had called Old William kind. "You met the Conqueror?"

"Aye." Her eyes shone as she remembered. "He came to see my father for his levies and brought Prince Henry with him. They were to have arranged a betrothal between us, but my mother's death prevented it."

Jesu, he thought, but this girl could have been England's queen one day. Henry was Rufus' heir, and given that harsh man's unwillingness to marry, he would likely be king. Eleanor of Nantes was an extraordinary girl. "Well, Demoiselle, you will have to excuse me—I would meet your Lord of the Condes." He beckoned a servant and pointed to Roger. "Tell him I would speak with him alone in my chamber."

Roger approached the meeting with Earl Richard with mixed emotions. He'd wanted to face the man for seven years just to ask why he'd abandoned Glynis, and yet he had to ask for his aid now. He followed the page to the closed door and reached hesitantly for the handle. The boy bobbed a quick bow and disappeared, leaving him alone in the corridor. Roger took a deep breath and wrenched the door open.

The earl stood over a table studying some papers that bore official seals. He looked up as Roger walked in, and gave him a wry smile. "Well, you do not look in need of my purse, at least."

"Nay, I have money."

"The Demoiselle speaks highly of you—says you are a lord of Normandy with ties to the Conqueror and his family, knighted by William himself before he died."

"Aye."

"Why then to you come to Harlowe?" Richard de Brione was blunt and to the point.

"Because, my father, I would have your aid." Roger spoke quietly, but the words hung in the aftersilence as though they had been shouted.

The earl drew in his breath and nodded. " 'Twould be difficult to deny you, boy. Even Brian wrote that you look much as I once did."

"You are my best hope, else I would not have come."

"Your mother—who gave you life?" Richard's question was almost inaudible as he faced Roger.

"Did you have so many lemans you could not remember? Do you forget the daughter of a Saxon thane?"

"Nay! Name your mother!"

"Glynis, daughter to Aeldrid."

"You lie!"

Roger was unprepared for the vehemence of de Brione's reaction, but he stood his ground. "Aye—I am Glynis' son of your loins, my lord, born in Normandy in July 1069—your bastard, Earl Richard!"

"Nay, you cannot be! 'Tis a hoax! Name your mother!"

"Glynis!"

Richard de Brione was as white as parchment. "Nay, Roger whoever-you-are, my Glynis lies dead in the churchyard—and has these twenty-three years past! How dare you claim to be her son!"

"She said you'd repudiate me as you did her long ago!" Roger shouted back. "Aye, you let them turn her out knowing she carried your child!"

"I tell you she is dead! I do not know what cruel trick you would play, boy, but you cannot be hers!" The earl was obviously shaken by Roger's assertion of his birth. "You may well be my son, but you are not hers!"

"And I know not who is buried in your churchyard, my lord, but it is not Aeldrid's daughter." Roger lowered his voice and spoke as reasonably as he could. "She spoke to me the day I went into the Conqueror's service, saying I need have no shame over Gilbert of Nantes—that I was not his son." He raised his eyes to the earl, his pain evident. "For fifteen years I had lived in his house, treated little better than a stableboy even though he acknowledged me, and I saw my mother despised as his leman. She did it to provide for me, my lord, and I was not his son! She did not tell me then, else I would have sought you out long ago, my lord, and I would have asked you why you let Gilbert take her. 'Twas not until a few months ago that she would tell me you were my father. And it pained her greatly to know that I would bring Lea here." He let out his breath slowly to control the anger he felt. "I know not who is in your churchyard," he repeated, "but Glynis of Harlowe lives!"

Richard de Brione's hands shook and his jaw worked as he struggled to maintain his own composure. "Brian said you reminded him of Glynis," he half-whispered, "but it cannot be!"

"Dig up the grave, my lord, and you'll not find her there. My mother is in the care of the nuns of Abbeville—she went there when I went into the Conqueror's service. It pained her greatly," he repeated, "to know that I would come to you after what you did to her."

"Nay—ever did I love her! I left her in my family's care, Roger, when I went off to fight the Wake in William's cause with my father. She died ere I returned. There was naught but a grave to show me when I came home to her."

"Nay—you knew they meant to sell her to Gilbert! You were through with her!" Roger accused.

"She is dead, I tell you!"

"Dig up her grave and show me!"

" 'Tis sacrilege to disturb the dead!"

"She is not there!"

Both men were shouting again. Roger stepped back and tried again to regain his temper. He took another deep breath and let it out slowly until he could speak in an even voice. "Very well, my lord, if you fear God's retribution, give me a shovel. I am certain enough that she lives in Abbeville that I will risk my immortal soul to show you."

"So be it then! I'll not wait until morning—you can come down now and show me."

Richard de Brione spun on his heel and stalked out of his chamber into the corridor. Roger followed him silently nearly the length of the wall on one side until he stopped at the south tower. The earl stopped finally and removed a pitch torch that smoked in a ring before opening a narrow door to the outside.

"Here—you carry this and I'll show you the way."

They cut across an open space between tower and wall. Frogs could be heard from the lake beyond and the water lapped against the rock pilings where the island had been raised. Harlowe boasted a separate chapel, a small church that had been incorporated within its walls when the castle had been built, and the building stood butted against the curtain wall. Richard opened a small shed behind the church and rummaged for a shovel, cursing the darkness until he found one. He threw it out onto the grass, muttering, "There—dig!"

"Where?"

"My family lies within the church floor, but they buried her outside because she was Saxon." Richard led him around to the side of the church to what appeared to be some sort of a garden. A stone bench flanked by fragrant rosebushes sat near the center. The earl walked behind it and pointed down. "Here—she lies here."

There was a carved stone, but Roger could not read it in the darkness. Richard brushed the grass away and murmured, "This marks the very spot, Roger. I had it set when I became earl."

Uncertain as to just what he'd find, Roger crossed himself and murmured a prayer before he began to dig. The earth was soft from summer rains and gave way easily beneath the shovel. The earl held the torch off to the side and watched as Roger turned shovelful after shovelful out onto the grass. Roger's shoulders ached as he spaded out a pit some three or four feet deep and several feet wide. Finally he straightened and wiped his forehead with a dirty hand. "Are you sure you had it aright, my lord? This is the place?"

"Aye. I wept here often enough when I came home. My mother led me here and showed me the spaded earth and said, 'She died of the fever shortly after you left, Richard.' "

"Well, as you can see, she is not here. There is no box and no bones. She was sold to Gilbert of Nantes—he was to use her and then to kill her. They could not know that he would not tire of the Saxon girl and would keep her with him. She told me she wanted to die, but she knew she carried me, and then she bore me in Gilbert's stronghold and let everyone think me his."

"She still lives." Richard's voice was hollow. "Mother of God! Why did she not seek me out?"

"She did not want to. You see, she heard at Gilbert's table that you had wed."

"Aye—the girl died in childbed. My father chose a fine Norman girl for me." The earl shook his head bitterly. "And all these years Glynis lived. Jesu! I took another while my wife yet lived."

"Your wife?"

"Aye—did she not tell you? Her family wanted no part of my Norman blood and mine wanted no part of her Saxon blood. She was pure when she came to me, Roger, and we did not lie together until we pledged ourselves at the church door. When 'twas done, we faced the wrath of both families." He straightened up and looked off into the darkness. "Had I not gone against the Wake, things would have been very different." Slowly he turned his attention back to Roger. "You are no bastard of mine if you are her son—you are Roger de Brione."

"Jesu!"

"Aye."

"She never told me that."

"Mayhap she did not know—mayhap she thought the pledge was not binding or that I repudiated her." Richard de Brione stood up and looked at Roger awkwardly. "Right now, I feel nothing, Roger—I am unused to the idea of having a son… and you are a man grown."

"I had not expected this."

"You must have expected something—you came to me for aid."

"I intended to confront you as your bastard son and ask that you at least help me stand against the wrath of Robert of Belesme—mayhap the wrath of Curthose also."

"Belesme?" Richard gave a start.

"Aye. You see, I have run off with his intended bride."

It was dawn almost and the candles were nearly gutted for the third time before they sought their beds. Roger sat in Earl Richard's chamber and told the whole story of his and Eleanor's lives at Nantes, of her misery and his own when they were children, of his rise in William's household, of her exile to Fontainebleau, of Prince Henry, of Robert of Belesme, of Fuld Nevers, and of Rouen. He told of their flight from Rouen and their escape in Walter's ship and their subsequent journey to Harlowe. The earl listened intently and asked a question occasionally when he found the tale too tangled to follow. The only thing Roger could not bring himself to tell of was his intense desire for Eleanor—that was still too personal, too close to his soul for discussion.

When he finished, Richard de Brione leaned back and watched his son beneath lowered lids. For a moment Roger thought he'd slipped into sleep. Finally the earl sighed heavily and shook his head. "Aye, there's no help for it—you'll have to marry the Demoiselle."

"She won't wed with me," Roger told him flatly. "She would still think of me as brother rather than husband."

"I'll speak with her if you wish."

"Nay—'tis yet too soon."

"Roger…" Richard studied his son. "Does she not realize that in our class strangers wed? It is a matter of policy."

"I think she could accept it better if we were strangers."

"So long as she is neither wed nor given to Christ, Robert can lay claim to her. Her best chance is in marriage to a strong lord. If you have no stomach for it, I can approach Chester—his heir fostered with me and serves me yet. The boy is but twenty, but his father is powerful and has Rufus' ear."

"Nay! God's teeth! I did not bring her out of Normandy to give her to another man or to God."

"I thought not when you were doing the telling."

"She won't have me."

"Aye—she will."

"I will not have her unwilling." Roger stood and walked to the window to watch the dawn break over the horizon. "In my dreams, she comes to me with love—I could not have it otherwise."

"A man's dreams rarely turn into reality, Roger," the earl told him as he rose to stretch his long frame. "If you would indeed have her safe from Robert of Belesme, marriage is the only answer, and if you want her to wive, take her now and woo her later." His eyes swept over Roger and his face broke into a grin. "You look like a strong, healthy man capable of pleasing a maid once she is bound to you."

"I would not force her!"

"I cannot believe you would have to—she would seem to have some affection for you, from what she said to me." The earl stood, flexing tired muscles, and came to face his son. "Is she yet a virgin?"

"Aye."

"Then it is important to have witnesses to that fact."

"I won't have her humiliated! Nay—none shall look on her!"

" 'Twas not my meaning, Roger. I would counsel you that several must be ready to attest she came a virgin to you—to witness the evidence of her maidenhead when the sheets are removed from the bed."

"She is convent-bred, my lord, and ignorant of such things."

"And I have no lady suitable to speak with her. Surely she has seen animals—"

"It is not the same."

"Jesu! Well, she will survive, anyway. The sooner 'tis done, the better, if we are to face Belesme when he comes for her."

"You will stand with me then?"

" 'Tis time someone stood against him, Roger. As soon as the Demoiselle is settled, I go to Abbeville to see your mother and plead my own case." An ironic smile twisted Richard's mouth. "What I would not give to tell Gilbert that his daughter has gone to my son."

The sun rose and waxed high in the sky and Richard de Brione sat alone in his chamber. Roger's revelations gave him too much food for thought to allow him the peace of sleep. The boy—nay, the man—was tall and strong and well-favored… and he was his son. A sigh of regret escaped him—regret that he could never know the joy of holding the boy when small, of watching him grow and strengthen, and of seeing him rise in men's favor. But those times were past and irretrievable. Richard frowned and tried to bring Glynis' image to his mind. Memories were faulty at best, but he could swear the boy had something of Glynis in his face. Mayhap it was the blondness of his hair or the straightness of his nose. Jesu, but the years had robbed them, Glynis, himself, and his son.

His son. The thought echoed in Richard's mind and filled him with pride. He had a son of his body, an heir to his lands—yea, a strong, fine son. And in need, that son had turned at last to him. The boy did not want for courage or daring, he mused. But then, one look at the girl could tell him why. They were well-matched, those two, and they deserved better than he and Glynis had had.

He could tell from the way Roger spoke of her that Eleanor of Nantes was everything to him. For the boy, life without her would be without meaning, and Richard understood. The joy and the pain of a love nearly eased by time but never forgotten flooded over him. Aye, he would stand by his son—and he would give him the Demoiselle. Well, there was no time like the present to make a move.

Richard de Brione nodded to himself. He would speak to the girl and make her understand. He stood, settled his shoulders back, and strode for the stairs. It was a long walk to what had once been his mother's solar, but it was something he had to do before he slept. He called out to a page that crossed in front of him, "Run tell the Demoiselle that I would speak with her!"

When he arrived, he found her waiting. She wore a simple robe of smooth blue sendal caught at the waist with a golden chain. Jesu, but it was not difficult to see why the boy wanted her—she was perfection in the flesh. She looked up with clear brown eyes before dropping to a deep curtsy at his feet.

"Nay, Lady Eleanor, do not kneel to me." He touched the soft crown of her hair awkwardly. "I do not expect it."

She rose gracefully and faced him. "You wished to see me?"

"Aye." He was no callow youth, but even at his age he found it difficult to look at her and speak. He cleared his throat and motioned her to a window bench. "I know why you are here, Demoiselle, and I would help you." He waited for her to sit and then took a place next to her, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "You have only three courses of action, child—you can marry, you can take the veil, or you can return to Belesme—and those are the only choices you have. I would advise you to take my Roger."

She did not look at him. Twisting the fabric of her skirt with her hands, she shook her head. "You do not understand, my lord."

"Aye—I fear I do. My son has risked everything for you—his lands, his life even—and it will all be for naught if you go back to Belesme. That leaves but the convent or marriage. You could have taken your vows long ago if that was your wish, and saved everyone much trouble, but you did not." The earl cocked his head to study her reaction to his words. "Roger would wed with you, and I think it the best way." When she made no answer, he added gently, "The boy loves you, Eleanor."

"For now." She nodded. "Aye, for now."

"And now may be the only time there is—take the advice of one who has lived with pain and sorrow for years. Death or separation can end anything at any time without warning."

"You do not understand—I can bring him nothing… and—and I may disappoint him."

"He is not without resources, Demoiselle."

"But I am accursed!" The words escaped before she could hold them back.

"Nay, I think not. Eleanor …" He reached out and stilled her twisting hands. "He has had little happiness, you know—give him this."

"But I am like to bring him none!"

"Why?" he asked bluntly.

"My mother bore no sons and my father's love turned to hate. What if it is the same with me?" She stared miserably at the floor as she confessed her deepest fear.

"That is in the hands of God alone, child. Do not let your parents' meanness deny you happiness. If you do not dare because you fear to fail, you rob yourself of the fullness of life. Where would England be if William had not dared?" He patted the hand he touched. "Besides, my son would have you at whatever cost."

"I know."

"And you owe him his chance for happiness—he has given all for you."

"I pray I do not cost him his life, my lord. Belesme hates him and will kill him if the opportunity arises."

"Whether you wed him or not," Richard reasoned. "Aye… well, think on it—the choice is yours, Eleanor." He rose to leave and found himself unbelievably tired. "My son has offered marriage—I ask you to consider his offer."

"Did he send you, my lord?"

"Nay, he sleeps. We spoke until long after the sun came up this morning." He managed a rueful smile. "I have missed much in these twenty-three years and I would give all I have to live them over. Do not let that be your lament one day."

She watched him leave with troubled heart. As a girl who prided herself for her honesty, she had to admit the truth of everything the earl had said. Aye, Roger wanted her, loved her—he'd said so. And he was a desirable husband in more ways than one. She'd seen the way the women at Rouen had watched him eagerly. Moreover, there was no denying that she loved him. It had been days since she'd admitted the truth to herself, but now she realized the bond they'd shared for years was more than the affection of a brother and sister. Aye, well she could remember her jealousy when he'd admitted his love for the unknown lady. And it gave her pleasure to know she'd been that lady. As for wanting him—she could not be in his presence without being acutely aware of him as a man now. At night, she knew no peace alone in her bed. Over and over again, she relived that afternoon spent in the stream and wondered what it would have been like if she had not stopped him. Even her memories left her weak with desire and hungry again for his touch.

There was much to love in him—qualities like strength of character, steadfastness in the face of danger, physical and emotional courage, and a genuine goodness of heart. Then too, there were things like the blue eyes that could darken with passion, warm with pleasure, and brighten with mischief—eyes that seemed to mirror his soul. She'd long thought the world did not hold a handsomer man. Jesu, but he was beautiful.

What if Earl Richard were right? What if the present might be all the time there was for them? Roger wanted her and loved her; she loved and wanted him. Were her fears sufficient reason to deny them a chance for happiness? She sat, she paced, she pondered. Finally she sought out Roger.

She was uncertain what she would say when she faced him—the debate raged in her mind every step she took. When she climbed the winding stairs and reached the doorway, she did not knock to warn him.

Finding him still abed, she pulled open the bed hangings and leaned over him to blurt out, "I am come to tell you I will wed with you if you still wish it."

Her words penetrated his consciousness and brought him awake with a start. "What?"

"I said I'd wed with you if you still wished it." Her hands were clenched at her side and her face betrayed her fright at her decision.

"Sweet Mary!" he breathed. "If I wish it—aye, above all things!" He sat up to look at her. The sheet fell away from his bare shoulders and chest. "Jesu! Am I dreaming, Lea?"

"Do you want me to shout it, Roger—twice I've said I would marry you—three times now."

"When?"

"Whenever you wish."

He reached out and clasped her hand. "Tomorrow, then. You find me unready for today." He felt her stiffen and looked up in surprise. "You said whenever I wished," he reminded her.

"So be it."

In spite of her sudden decision, Roger could tell that she was still afraid of something. He released her hand and spoke lightly. "You find me unprepared for company, love. Unless you would join me here, you'll have to let me get up and get dressed. I cannot converse properly if I am lying down and you are standing."

"Aye." She moved toward the door.

" 'Twas not my meaning, Lea. Turn your back and look at the window—or look at me again, if you wish, but do not flee."

"I wasn't fleeing." She wiped her damp palms against the folds of her skirt. "I have said what I came to say."

"Nay—there is more to it than that." He thrust his feet on the floor and stood while reaching for his knee-length tunic. Hastily shrugging it over his head, he moved between her and the door. "Now, Lea, we will talk."

She was pale as parchment, her hands were nervously working against her gown, and her eyes were huge in her pale face. She chewed her lip to fight against her rising fright. She'd said she'd wed, but she was by no means certain that it was right. What if her mother's curse were real? "I… I…" she began. "Oh, Roger—help me, please!"

"Help you what?" he asked gently as he moved closer. "What ails you? Of what are you afraid, Lea?"

"I don't know." With a sob, she threw herself into his arms. "It was so sensible, so right when I reasoned it out," she whispered against his shoulder. "Roger, tell me it is the right thing to do."

" 'Tis the right thing, I swear to you." He held her back a little to search her face. "Are you afraid of me, Lea? Look at me—I am Roger, the same Roger you have known all your life. I have held your hand and shared your sorrows these nearly twenty years. You cannot be afraid of me."

"N-nay, 'tis not that—'tis I fear for you."

"Because of Belesme? Because of Mary de Clare? Lea, share with me. I cannot fight that which I do not know, but together we can overcome anything."

"But Belesme—"

"Has wanted my head for seven years and more and he's not got it yet. Let me worry about Belesme." He let her burrow back into his shoulder and began rubbing her back to ease her tension. "And do not be comparing me to Gilbert, love, for we are not at all alike. I might have strangled Mary de Clare for her tongue, but I'd never have put her aside for the lack of a son. That is in the hands of God and none other," he told her flatly.

"You are sure—you won't feel differently later?"

"I swear. Lea, I love you and you only. If you come to me barren, I am content so long as you come to me." He could feel her relax a little and he pressed his advantage. "I took my oath to you long ago in the chapel at Nantes—I swore on a sacred relic to be your champion, your man until I die. That oath has precedence over any other oath I take to king, liege, or Church, Lea. Now I would pledge my love and my body to you in marriage, and I ask the same of you."

"Aye—but tomorrow? There's not even time to cry the banns, and we are unbetrothed even."

" 'Tis simple—the Church recognizes pledges made at its doors by consenting parties. The thing to remember is that, while there is no prescribed oath for such a marriage, each of us must say we come of our free will, name our spouse, and state we take each other in marriage."

"Surely that is not all."

"Aye—that is why it was so important that you not say anything to Belesme that he could take as a promise to wed."

"Nay, I said nothing to him."

"I know." He ruffled her soft hair and fought his growing awareness of her. "Would you like to hear what I would say? You may say what you wish." Before she could answer, he caught her hand in his and began, "I, Roger de Brione, take thee, Eleanor of Nantes, to wive, to have and to love in joy and in adversity from now to the end of my life, I so swear."

"What a pretty way to say it—can I not just say the same thing?"

"Aye, if you want, but you'll probably have to practice it. I know I have for a long time."

She looked up in surprise and found him grinning down at her. "Aye, you may have known for only weeks that we could wed—I have known for years."

She laid her head back against his shoulder and felt easier than she had since Belesme came to Fontainebleau. "And just how long have you wanted to wed with me?" she asked.

"A long time. I suppose I first thought of it when William came to Nantes and there was talk of your being given to Henry. It was insane, but I kept thinking: Not Henry—me! And I was all of fifteen at the time!"

"Roger, my father will disown me—I can bring you nothing."

" 'Tis all right—I have enough for both of us, Lea. I am certain I can keep the Condes now." His arms tightened around her. "And you wed no bastard, Eleanor." When she looked up in surprise, he smiled broadly and nodded. "Aye—my mother and father were wed in church—the same place where we will give our vows. I am not a bastard—not Gilbert's nor Earl Richard's by-blow. Richard de Brione is my father in fact and in law."

"Sweet Mary! 'Tis wonderful, Roger!" Her face flushed with pleasure for him. "But how…?"

"A long story that I'll tell you later."

" 'Tis not right that I bring you nothing then."

"Oh, so you would wed a bastard, Lea, and cavil at taking the heir to an earldom."

"And you know that is not it!"

"Ah, now you are more like my Lea. I wondered how long it would be before this weak, frightened creature gave way to your real self," he teased. "Truly, though, I doubt Gilbert has the power to disinherit his firstborn entirely. But if he does, I have enough for both of us—unless, of course, you give me so many children that I must needs conquer new lands to provide for them all."

Outside, the bells began to ring midday. Roger reluctantly loosed his hold on her and gave her a playful push toward the door. "My belly is empty and my legs are bare, love. If you would see me break my fast at all before tonight, I have to get dressed and shaved."

If dinner at noon had caused a stir with Roger sitting at the high table, supper surpassed it for drama. Eleanor entered the hall on Earl Richard's arm and Roger followed them all the way to the dais. A murmur passed through the assembled guests, retainers, and men-at-arms when Roger again sat there. And before Richard de Brione gave the signal for the cook's parade, he stood to make his announcement.

"Good friends, vassals, men of Harlowe, I make known to you Roger de Brione, my son, who is lately arrived from Normandy." He seemed almost overcome by emotion as he continued, "Through a cruel trick, knowledge of his existence was denied me until yesterday, but I mean to make up for those years we were apart. I ask your welcome, I ask your loyalty to my son," he told the stunned audience. "Aye—he is my heir. His mother and I were contracted before the Wake's rebellion, and he was conceived ere I left to fight for my king. But because his mother was Saxon, daughter to Aeldrid, my mother had her taken away." He stopped to wipe his eyes briefly before going on. "Now, as soon as may be practical, I leave for France to see my wife. I have hopes of persuading her to return here with me. Until then, I ask you to join me in celebrating the return of my son and in witnessing his marriage to the Demoiselle of Nantes." He reached down to clasp Eleanor's hand and drew her up beside him. "Aye—who could not be proud of a daughter such as this one? May she give you a future earl of my blood." Eleanor flushed beside him, but he seemed not to notice. "They pledge to each other before Mass tomorrow and ask Father Alain's blessing then." Richard then gestured Roger to rise and placed Eleanor's hand in his. "I give you your third earl, God willing, and his lady."

At first, everyone was too stunned to do anything but stare. Finally Brian de Scoville, Harlowe's seneschal, and Ralph d'Escrivet, the steward, rose and began to clap loudly. The others followed suit and the hall seemed alive with approbation. It might be a shock, most reasoned, but an earldom with an heir was more secure in Rufus' England than one whose succession was at the king's mercy. A traveler who knew of Roger FitzGilbert hastened to tell all who would listen of Roger's remarkable abilities as a soldier. Those around listened and tried to take pride in the fact that the heir had something to recommend him.

"Roger de Brione—it sounds strange to my ears," Eleanor whispered as she took her seat again.

"Aye—to mine too, but I like the sound of it," Roger whispered back. His hand sought hers in her lap. "A new name, a new land, a new wife—how could I ask for more?"

Her fingers tightened around his. It was the end of one portion of her life also. The man beside her offered her a new beginning far from Belesme, far from Gilbert, far from Fontainebleau. Her brother, the FitzGilbert, lived no more; her husband, Roger de Brione, would build her a future free from fear. She would wed with him and try to give him an heir of his body.

Eleanor spent much of her wedding day being bathed, having her hair washed and dried and scented with honeysuckle. She wore a simple gown of her favorite purple samite with Roger's bride gifts of girdle and golden circlet. In her hands she carried a pearl-and-gold chaplet for her prayers.

A maid answered a tap at the door and admitted the earl after a brief conference. He stepped in and surveyed Eleanor appreciatively before handing her a parchment that bore his seal. She looked up in surprise before turning her attention to the document. Richard de Brione watched her flush with pleasure as she read.

"I don't understand …" she began when she'd finished reading.

" Tis plain enough." He smiled. "You were worried to come to your husband with nothing, Eleanor, so I have dowered you myself."

"But—"

"Hush, child. Before you and Roger came to Harlowe, I had naught but land and wealth. Now I have an heir of my body." He leaned forward to plant a chaste kiss on her cheek. "Now I have a son and a daughter, Eleanor." He moved away to stare down from the window to the peaceful lake that lapped the castle's very foundation. "God willing, I hope to regain my wife after so many years. I pray she can be persuaded to return with me." He straightened his shoulders as though he lifted a weight off them. "Aye, once you and Roger are pledged, I leave for London to present proof of my own marriage and to ask Rufus' recognition of my heir. That done, I am for Abbeville to see Glynis."

"I pray she comes also, my lord," Eleanor told him, "for I loved her dearly as a child and I love her still. Will you tell her that for me, please?"

"I will." There were a dozen questions Richard wanted to ask the girl before him, but could not bring himself to put them into words. She seemed to sense his hesitation. "My lord, do not ask her of Gilbert—she hated him and she hated her life at Nantes. Had she the means to have seen Roger cared for, she would have left long before she did. It was hard for her to be known as my father's leman all those years." When he made no reply, she defended Glynis further. "Aye, and she left as soon as the Conqueror provided for Roger, my lord."

"I do not doubt it, Demoiselle, and I would not reproach her for that which she could not help. If there is any blame, 'tis on me and my family." A smile played at the corners of his mouth much like Roger's. "And if I am ever in need of a champion, Eleanor, I pray you will speak for me as loyally as you have for my wife and son."

The fourth bells rang. Eleanor gave a nervous start and clutched her chaplet tightly. " 'Tis nearly time, and I am not ready!"

"Nay, child go as you are. I promise he'll be pleased by the sight of you. Rannulf reports him as short-tempered as a bear in a pit from the wait." He straightened the circlet on her brow in a fatherly gesture and offered, "I'll walk you there."

"I would be honored, my lord."

A tiring woman thrust a small breviary into her hands. "Demoiselle, you must go." With a quick twist of the skirt of her gown to straighten it, the woman pushed her toward the door. "May God smile on you, my lady."

Clouds had parted to admit the sun's brightness after a morning of intermittent rain. The world seemed to have bathed and freshened itself during a respite from summer's heat. Richard took Eleanor's hand and laid it in the crook of his elbow as they came out into the open stone-paved walk. "Even the heavens smile on you, Eleanor, for this day to tell you 'tis right what you do."

"I pray it is."

He could sense her tension mounting and sought to ease it. "Tell me, child, how it is that the world calls you Eleanor and my son names you Lea?" he asked casually as he stopped to open a gate.

"When I was born, he could not pronounce Eleanor, my lord, and Glynis is said to have sounded it out slowly for him as El-le-a-nor. He still could not say it, but he marked the middle sounds and to him I have been Lea ever since. I like it."

"Aye, he told me you two shared much as children."

"He and Glynis were all I had, my lord," she answered simply, "and when he left to join William's train and she went away, I thought I should die of the loneliness." She gave a deep sigh of remembrance. "And then I went to Fontainebleau."

He patted the hand that rested on his. "Those times are over, Eleanor. Now you will have a husband to stand for you and to keep you. You are fortunate that you get one who knows and loves you. Too many of our class marry as strangers and get acquainted in the marriage bed."

She fell silent. She had many questions that she could not ask about what would happen. When she'd overheard some of the maids discussing her after her bath, saying such things as, "The little Demoiselle is too small for such a one as that" and "I'll warrant she bleeds much," she'd sought out Roger frantically. His attempts at soothing had been of little benefit when he'd told her, "All women bleed a little then, Lea, but only the once." She'd wanted to ask more, but his body servants had arrived to prepare him, and she had no further opportunity. She felt pitifully ignorant of what was expected of her. Now she realized with a start that they'd stopped walking and Richard de Brione watched her curiously.

"Is something the matter, Demoiselle?" he asked gently.

"Nay." She reddened in embarrassment at her thoughts. " 'Tis only that I wish I had some lady to speak with before… before…"

"Aye, and I regret the lack. What troubles you?"

She looked up wide-eyed and then back to the bright green grass. He seemed kind and fatherly and concerned for her well-being. With a gulp, she managed to ask, "What happens if I am too small?"

Fighting an urge to smile at her innocence, Richard appeared to consider the matter seriously. "I've never heard of that happening, Eleanor, and I am sure your husband will use you gently. Where did you hear such a thing?"

"From the maids."

"Well, you are not as small as all that, I can tell you. In fact, you are much bigger—aye, a foot or more taller—than William's Mathilda. You say you remember the Conqueror—well, he was not a small man, was he?"

"Nay, he was only a little shorter than Roger."

"Then there is your answer."

"Thank you, my lord."

"You are most welcome, Demoiselle. Is there anything else you would know before we go on?"

"Aye, but I could not ask such questions."

"Then I suggest you seek out Roger alone when we are done and ask what you would of him. I'll warrant he can answer for you."

They managed the rest of the walk in harmony. Richard was enchanted with his son's choice of a wife. The girl had beauty and intelligence, to be sure, but she also had a candor that would serve her well. Her ignorance of sexual matters was born of a sheltered existence and could be remedied, but her innate honesty about her lack of information brought him the realization his son wed no ordinary beauty.

A slow smile broke across her face, prompting him to stop again. "What amuses you now?"

"I was thinking that the Conqueror and his lady must have made an odd-looking pair with him so big and her so little."

"Aye—she had to stand on a stool to get into bed, and everything had to be made small for her—stools, tables, everything. Her bower must have been a strange place for him." The bells tolled again. "But we tarry too long, Eleanor. If we do not hurry, Mass will have already begun."

When they reached the church, Roger and his witnesses were already there. He had come early to pray and give thanks—it was fitting to do so, since God allowed him the two closest desires of his heart in Eleanor of Nantes and his own legitimacy. Now it would be up to him to make what he could of God's gifts.

Even as he took her hand at the church door, he was unprepared for the love, the pride in her, the exhilaration he felt. A hush fell over the assemblage as all strained to hear the priest's greeting and the couple's vows to each other. Father Alain stood before them in the doorway and asked their purpose; then Roger responded they came to pledge themselves in marriage. After asking if any there knew of any impediment to the marriage, the priest waited for any to protest. When none spoke up, he nodded to Roger.

Taking a deep breath, Roger clasped Eleanor's hand even more tightly and spoke clearly: "I, Roger de Brione, of my free will, take thee, Eleanor of Nantes, to wive, to have, to hold, to love in joy and adversity unto the ends of our lives. I so swear."

His hand was warm and strong over hers and his blue eyes, though serious, gave warmth and reassurance. For a brief moment she looked up at him before facing the priest. Softly, almost inaudibly, she began her own promise to him, and her voice gained in intensity as she spoke: "I, Eleanor of Nantes, of my free will, take thee, Roger de Brione, for my husband, to have and to honor, to love and to keep, so long as we may live. I so swear. Father, I ask God's blessing."

There on the stone threshold, they knelt while Harlowe's chaplain laid his hands over them and called on God to grant them joy of each other and children of their bodies. Rising, they followed him in to Mass.

"Half an hour—I can try to give you half an hour before they want their sport," Roger leaned over and whispered to Eleanor while the traveling acrobats tumbled to after-supper music. He could feel her tense at his side and hastened to add, "Try to be in bed before we get there, Lea, even if you have to get up and do your hair after the door is barred. 'Twill be easier that way."

"All right."

He could tell by her terse reply that she was mortified by the prospect of having a dozen or so men see her bedded according to custom. He slipped a reassuring arm about her shoulders and pulled her closer. "Nay, they do not stay—my father will see to that. He has ordered more wine to be brought out so that they may revel into the night."

"Do they have to look on me?" she managed even as her face flamed. She caught the glimmer of amusement in Roger's eyes and flared, "Well, I have never wedded nor bedded before—I know not what to expect!"

"And I have never wedded before either, Lea—nay, do not look at me like you would box my ears—'twas not my meaning," he protested. "But I have witnessed the bedding before and I can tell you that they will strip me, say all manner of vulgar things, and put me into bed with you. someone will witness that my leg touches yours—that is all—and then they will leave if someone drags them off." He fingered a lock of hair, twirling it absently.

She pulled away nervously and shook her hair free. "Don't do that!" He looked down in surprise and she reddened again. "I am sorry, Roger—I… I am unreasonably cross."

"And you are afraid," he finished for her. "Aye, I understand, Lea, but you fear for naught—but we can speak of it later when we are more private. For now, drink your wine and watch that girl in the green." He pointed out to her where he looked. "See—I swear her joints are not the same as ours. Look at that! Could you walk over your head like that?"

"Well, I would not want to—you can see her legs when she does it."

"Aye." He turned back to stare at Eleanor, his gaze warm and intimate. "I would want you to do it only for me, of course." He watched her color yet again, the pink diffusing through her cheeks becomingly. Jesu, he thought, she is beautiful and she is mine. Mine! His heart seemed to swell with pride at the thought. For her, everything had to be right and good and he would see that it was. She would always have the best that he could give her of himself and of material wealth. Even his legitimacy took on a special significance because it was something more that he could bring to her. In time, he could make her a countess.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Earl Richard summon one of the maids to the dais. It was time. He stood and pulled Eleanor up after him. The music and acrobatics stopped as all eyes turned to them. With his free hand Roger lifted his cup high and called out, "I ask you all to wish my wife a long life of happiness as you join me with your cups." He swallowed a long draft to the cheers of Richard's household and guests. A slightly drunk knight yelled back, " 'Tis the custom to wish her fruitful, my lord."

Soon the hall was enveloped in chaos as everyone seemed to vie with everyone else in toasting the bride. " 'Tis now, Lea," Roger shouted over the din. "Run!"

Both Eleanor and the maid lifted their skirts and hurried for the door. Once out of the great hall, they were joined by several other maids and all ran for the tower bower where she would spend her wedding night. Richard's chamberlain lit the way for them and then stayed long enough to inspect the room to make sure servants had left everything in order. Then he withdrew and left them alone to get her ready for bed.

While one of the tiring women pulled off her gown and undershift, others turned back the bed and smoothed the fresh sheets. Still another prepared a tray with wine cups and fruits and cheeses to be set on a table near the bed. When a maid approached with her hairbrush, Eleanor remembered Roger's advice and shook her head.

"But madam," the girl protested, "it will tangle and get in the way."

"My lord likes it down," she managed as she fought rising panic. In a matter of minutes the room would be filled with strangers come to see her bedded, and then she and Roger would be alone—alone to do whatever it was they would do. By now she had a notion of what would happen from what she'd gleaned in snatches of conversations between the maids. It sounded distasteful and it sounded painful, but she'd made her commitment in Holy Church to Roger and she would not draw back now.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Eleanor pulled away from those who yet attempted to straighten her hair and tore open the bed curtains before scrambling frantically between the sheets. The door burst open to admit a crowd of men who pushed a half-naked Roger ahead of them. Eleanor clutched the sheets tightly under her chin and sat up. Her dark hair tumbled down over shoulders and sheets in a cascade of lustrous waves. Rannulf of Chester swaggered over for a closer look, leering and telling her that she at least knew the proper place to await her lord. Her eyes seemed enormous in her face when Roger turned around to face her. They'd finished undressing him and several pushed him toward the bed while making obscene comments about his physique and offering advice on the best way to take a virgin. Before any could lift the sheets, Roger pushed them back.

"Move over, Lea, and let me in before they do me further harm." He tried to speak lightly to hide his own tension at finally being able to lie with her. She edged away while still tightly holding the covers against her. He heaved himself into the deep feather bed beside her and sat up. "At least give me a corner, Lea, if you do not mind. After all, 'tis not your body they laugh at." His teasing fell on unresponsive ears. Finally he reached over and gently disengaged a corner for himself and drew the sheet over both of them. Sliding his foot over to rub against the calf of her leg, he motioned his father to approach. Earl Richard nodded and announced, "They are bedded. Let us go back and finish the rest of the wine—the jongleur and the acrobats stay to perform yet again."

"Aye!" Rannulf snouted. "And I get the one in the green!" He laughed at Eleanor's shocked expression. "I would see what lies above those legs of hers!"

With more ribald comments, the men gradually filed out. Roger quickly rose to bar the door after them. "Jesu, Lea, but I thought I should never have you to myself." He stopped to pour wine into the cups and brought them back to the bed. "Here, drink this—'twill make you feel better."

"Roger, if I drink any more, I shall either be sick or too drunk to know what happens," she protested.

"Lea—" He hesitated while he tried to calm his own racing heart. He wanted her and he wanted her now, but his mind counseled caution. She was obviously afraid. He swallowed some of the wine to wet his dry mouth. "Would you like for me to braid your hair so that it does not tangle while… while you sleep?" His hands seemed to shake as he set aside his cup.

"I don't care."

The wind was coming up, bringing with it the smell of new rain. Roger walked over to open the shutters and to let the breeze cool the heat he felt in his body. He wanted to get back into the bed and throw himself over her to slake the intense desire he felt for her, but this was no serving wench nor free-favored lady of Normandy's court. This was Eleanor of Nantes, his Lea, the woman he'd wanted and fought to have for years. With her, he had to go slowly, to woo gently, to teach lovingly. With her, it had to be a union of spirit as well as flesh. He moved back to sit on the side of the bed.

"Lea—" He reached to clasp her hand. It was small and cold in his. "Lea, I know you are afraid, but I will help you. I am the same man you have known since we were children, love." He tried to keep his voice even and calm, but it sounded strange even to his own ears. "If you will but do as I ask, it will be fine, I promise." He turned to watch her face in the flickering candlelight. She seemed as still as though she were carved out of a fine white stone. Only the rise and fall of the sheet against her breast when she breathed betrayed life. "Lea…"He sought words of explanation and could find none. Finally he looked away with a sigh. "It has been some time since I've laid with a woman, Lea, and I do not know if I can wait until you are ready. I will try not to hurt you this time, love, and I can tell you that after this once, there is no pain." He felt her hand tighten in his as she squeezed his fingers.

"Roger, I love you," she whispered in the dimness behind him. "I always have and I always will. Nothing you could possibly do to me would change that." When he turned to her, he could feel as well as see her timid smile. "Aye, I am afraid, but I will survive because I know you love me."

"Sweet Mary, but I love you, Lea," he managed as he rolled into bed and enveloped her in his arms. "I will do my best to please you." She turned against him, small, soft, warm, and trusting. An overwhelming need to protect her flooded over him. "Would you have the candles doused or left lit?"

" 'Tis up to you, my lord husband," she murmured against the hard flesh of his shoulder.

"Well, I would see what I could of you even in this light," he answered. "Aye, I would watch your face." He shifted her position slightly and bent to brush her forehead lightly with his lips. "Art beautiful, Lea." His fingers kneaded the bare skin of her shoulders as his mouth sought hers. Even as her lips parted, desire flamed through him.

He twisted and turned hungrily against her while exploring her mouth, her earlobes, her neck, and her throat with his mouth. She twined her arms around his neck and tried to press against him. She could feel the hard muscles that corded his back, shoulders, and upper arms, and his strength fed her own desire. When his mouth moved lower to savor the taste of her breasts, her hands worked ceaselessly to caress his back and then to ruffle the thick waves of his hair.

Gradually he let his hand brush lower and lower as it moved from cupping her breast to stroking the soft smoothness of her flat belly and then to the wetness below. She recoiled briefly when he touched her there, and then closed her eyes in pleasure as he began to stroke the entrance to her body.

It seemed that every sense was centered somewhere deep within her belly as something tautened inside and strained to reach some unknown ecstasy. His mouth and his hands felt as though they were everywhere now. Finally he moved back to her lips for one last, long, deep kiss before parting her legs with his knee and easing his body over hers. Instinctively she settled beneath him and clutched at his waist.

"Do not draw away," he whispered hoarsely even as he sought her body with his own. For answer, she twined her legs over his and moved against him.

For one brief moment, when hard flesh met soft, she could feel her body resist his, then give way before him. A sharp tearing sensation made her stiffen and then there was a flood of warmth as two bodies joined. He held himself still inside her for a moment while he whispered anxiously, "Are you all right, Lea? The bad has ended."

For answer, she held him closer and nodded. Her eyes were still closed as he watched her when he began to move. "I love you, Lea," were his last coherent words as she strove to match his rhythm. It was as though they worked to meld themselves into each other, becoming one in a mindless, overwhelming desire to give and receive the extraordinary pleasure of each other's bodies. Roger fought to maintain enough control to satisfy Eleanor, but abstinence and the culmination of years of wanting made it nearly impossible to master what had become a raging need of his own. With a cry of release, he drove himself home deep within her and then collapsed breathless against her.

He could feel the beating of her heart and hear her ragged breathing beneath him. It came home again to him just how small and delicate she was in spite of her passion. He rolled over and away from her, pulling her hair. Propping himself up on an elbow, he disentangled the silky mass and then smoothed it away from her face. Her eyes were still closed, but he could watch her swallowing as she gained command of her own emotions. He bent to brush her lips softly. "Heaven… Lea, you have given me heaven."

She opened her eyes under his gaze and blushed furiously at his expression. Then her face broke into a warm smile that lit his heart. He pulled her closer and hugged her to him.

"Was it bad? Did I hurt you?" he asked above her ear. His arm closed protectively around her waist. "Are you all right?"

"I am fine, my lord husband." She managed to turn over in his arms and face him. "Roger, why did you not tell me it would be like that? Why did you let me worry so?"

"I could not tell you how it would be, Lea—it is different for a woman than for a man. Besides, I feared to disgust you."

She snuggled against him and rested her head beneath his chin. "Nay, you did not disgust me. Do you remember what you said to me in Fuld Nevers' stronghold? That there was nothing wrong with me? Well, I did not believe you until tonight." She burrowed closer as his arms tightened around her. "Oh, Roger, I do love you."

"You are sure you are all right? You are so small that I feared to crush you."

"Well, you did not." She stretched out a white arm for him to see in the dim candlelight. "Behold—I still have two whole arms and two whole legs—I am alive and well."

"Ummmmm." He nuzzled the top of her head. "Your hair smells of honeysuckle." His hand brushed it away from her temple.

"Ummmmhmmmm." She stretched against him and stifled a yawn.

"Are you sleepy, Lea?"

"A little. Why? Did you want to lay with me again?"

"I am lying with you."

"You know what I mean."

"Nay—there is always tomorrow and years after then. Turn over and let me just hold you." When she did as he told her, he tucked an arm around her waist and pulled her back against him. "Go on to sleep."

"Are you sure?" Her eyes were heavy as she suppressed another yawn. The excitement of the day and the physical satisfaction of their lovemaking made her drowsy. A gust of wind caught at the bed curtains as rain began to pelt against stone walls and hit like pebbles in the lake below. He was warm, he was safe, she was secure. She settled comfortably in his arms and drifted into sleep even as the storm came up.

Sleep did not come to him for a long time. He lay close to her and savored the feel of her body against his. He felt too elated to give up his consciousness—his mind, his heart, every fiber of his being seemed to sing out, "She is mine!" After years of striving for the impossible dream, that dream had become reality and Eleanor of Nantes lay against him in the flesh. His hand moved again to push back the heavy hair that fell over her face and he could feel the soft warmth of her breath against his palm. A surge of emotion overwhelmed him—she was his to love, his to protect, his to keep. No longer did he have to imagine her coming to him in his dreams. She had given herself to him and that giving exceeded anything he could have imagined. Aye, it was more than the act itself—it was the intense union of body and spirit that gave him fulfillment.

The wind howled and the rain came down harder. He ought to get up and close the shutters against the sound and blow out the wildly flickering candles, he knew, but he was loath to leave her even for that minute. There was no clothing or furniture to damage and the candles would gut themselves soon enough. Besides, he took pleasure in looking at his sleeping wife in the faint light. It was not until a rain-drenched gale blew across the room and put out the candles that he could force himself to get up and shutter the window. She roused sleepily when he got back into bed and sat up in the darkness. "Roger… I thought you'd left me."

"Nay, love—never." He caught her and pulled her back down against him. The recent memory of her passion flooded over him as he remembered the feel of her open body beneath his. He moved his hands to cup her breasts while he nuzzled the sensitive places on her neck. "Let me love you again, Lea," he whispered into the darkness.

For answer, she turned in his arms and gave herself up to his embrace. The wind swirled and screamed furiously and the rain came down in sheets to splash into the lake, but neither cared.

"Lea… Lea! Are you all right?" Eleanor woke to Roger's shaking reluctantly. He peered anxiously in the warm morning light as she stretched sore muscles and tried to come awake.

She opened her eyes gradually to adjust to the brightness of the room. All vestiges of the storm had passed and it appeared they had slept nearly to midday. "Aye, I am fine." Her eyes met his and their shared passion came to mind. She blushed furiously as she thought of her wanton, shameless behavior in the night.

"You are sure—you aren't in any pain or anything, are you?"

"Nay." She shook her head and sat up. He appeared seriously concerned. 'Why?" she managed to ask as she sat up with a yawn.

Reassured, he managed a rueful grin. "Well, they are going to account me the greatest beast on earth, Lea, when they look at these sheets. Jesu, but they'll think I killed you."

She tumbled out of bed and looked for herself. A large dark bloodstain marked where she had lain and several smaller smudges smeared the area. Mortified, she managed to ask, "Roger, do I have to stay while they look? I mean… you know… there's certain to be more comment, and I've no stomach for it."

"Nay. Any can see you came to me a virgin, Lea." He kissed her lightly on the bridge of her nose before bending to savor the taste of her lips. Heat and desire seemed to flame between them in spite of the night's lovemaking. He drew back shakily and reached for his clothing. "Nay, I'll make you sore if we keep this up," He pulled on his chausses and tied them at his waist. Picking up his garters, he asked, "Do you want the maids or can I help you?"

She shook her head. "I can manage everything but my hair." She moved to look again at the bed. "Oh, Roger, they will see and they will know." Her face flamed again.

"Aye. Lea, 'tis what married people are expected to do—they do it every night."

"Every night?"

"Well, whenever the husband wills it, anyway." He finished wrapping his chausses and came to stand beside her.

"Aye, the husband's rights." She nodded.

"And the wife's, Lea." He picked up her brush and pushed her onto a bench before he started unknotting the tangles in her hair. "If you ever want me and I have not approached you to lie with you, just tell me and I will do my best to satisfy you. I would have you content in all ways, Lea."

She turned to lean against his leg and hugged it. "I am content."

"Well, I will have to write to Henry, of course, and tell him of our marriage. Do you send to Gilbert or do you want me to?"

"I don't care. It all seems so far away—my father, Belesme, Fontainebleau, everything."

"Aye, but we will have to go back one day. I have lands there—nay, we have lands there, love."

"When?" She jumped in alarm beneath his fingers.

"No time soon," he soothed. "But I will have to explain to Curthose if I want to keep the Condes. I think I'll let Henry plead my case first."

"Will he be angry that you did not tell him the whole when you asked his help?"

"Mayhap, but Henry is always Henry and we are friends. He is more likely to be disappointed that you came to me. His mind knew he could not have you, but his heart always had hope." He finished unsnarling the hair and began dividing it to plait into one heavy braid. As soon as it became known that they were awake, servants could be relied on to bring Richard de Brione and witnesses to attest to Eleanor's virginity in her marriage bed. "I could do this better, Lea, but if you would escape more vulgar comments, we will have to hurry. Do you think you could ride after last night?"

"Of course I can ride. Sweet Mary, but you worry too much, Roger."

"Well, if the water is not too high from the rain, I have someone Earl Richard has asked me to visit. My grandmother, my mother's mother, yet lives in the village in the care of the Saxons because she cannot bring herself to accept Norman charity from my father. He would have me tell her that her daughter yet lives and ask again that she come here if my mother returns."

"She must be very old."

"I would suppose so. I have never met her and my mother spoke little of her family."

"I would be proud to go with you."

"I had hoped so. I would show her what a fine wife I have got me, Lea." He finished braiding and straightened the plait against her back. "Hurry and dress, love, and we will get out of here for a while. I'll stop in the kitchens and beg some bread and cheese and cold meat and we can eat by ourselves somewhere between here and there." He gave her an affectionate squeeze on her shoulder. "Aye, I would have you to myself before I have to share your company with a dozen other men at my father's table."

"I hope we can cross the water."

"Aye. Mayhap they will lower the level." He watched her surprised expression. "This was not always a lake, Lea, according to Brian. When the Conqueror came, Aeldrid lived in a fortified manor on a point in the river bend. As the river was spring-fed, the Conqueror suggested to my grandfather that he divert the channel and surround the high ground with a lake for security. Thus Harlowe was built on the island formed where Aeldrid's manor had stood. That is why the church became part of the fortress—it sat far enough away from the village proper that it could not be left with it. My father has since built another church there to replace the one here."

"Does it seem strange to call Earl Richard your father?"

"Aye, but I know it is so and he would have it so. Therefore, I make the effort to think of him as my father. Mayhap it will come easier to say with time. As it is now, I cannot call him other than Richard."

"He is a good man, Roger. I can tell. He has none of Gilbert's weaknesses and he strives to do right."

"Let us hope that I have not brought him trouble." Roger pulled on a plain tunic and belted it.

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing."

"Nay—you said the words, so you can explain your meaning."

"Nothing."

"Roger," she warned, "I would share your fears as much as you would share mine. Is it Belesme?"

"A foolish worry, Lea, but a worry nonetheless. Richard is a belted earl with more lands and greater power in England than Belesme. With him beside me, I do not see how we can possibly fail."

"Roger, did you have any idea when you came here?" Eleanor fastened a girdle over her blue samite gown and turned around.

"I knew he was my father and I hoped that he would support me because of the blood we share, but I had not the least idea that I was not his bastard son."

"A lot of men do not own their bastards."

"Aye, but I'd heard he was an honorable man." He stopped to listen to the sounds of footsteps on the stairs. "Jesu, but we have tarried too long, Lea." A knock sounded and Earl Richard called through the door. Roger moved to open it and found his father alone.

"I came before the rest." His eyes rested approvingly on Eleanor. "I thought she might wish to be somewhere else when they arrived."

"We had hopes of going to see Gytha, my lord, if we can get across."

"I'll have someone row you across—part of the bridge is underwater and we have not yet opened the gates for fear of flooding the village."

"How can I find her direction?"

"Ask anyone there for Aeldrid's wife. Her husband was thane here and the Saxons still honor her…just tell them you are of her blood and they will take you to her." Richard's attention turned to Eleanor. "And you, daughter—how do you fare this morning?"

"I am well, my lord."

"So I see. Once word of your beauty spreads, my table will be full of those who would come to look on my daughter-in-law." He looked from her to Roger and back and could not resist a light teasing. "Well, I can see your fears were unfounded, little one."

"My lord—"

"Oh, leave him be, Roger. Can you not see he means me kindness?" Eleanor faced the earl with a smile. "Aye, my fears were unfounded, and I am well-pleased, my lord. Indeed, I am glad to be welcomed into this family. I hope now to be known as Roger de Brione's lady rather than Gilbert's daughter. 'Tis an honor."

"Well, you two had best be going if you are to miss seeing the sheets hung up for all to look on." He gave them a conspiratorial grin. "You'll find a basket ready in the scullery and I've left word at the gate you are to be taken across. We keep horses stabled on the other side."

"Thank you, my lord," Eleanor managed.

"Think you I do not remember how it was with Glynis even after all these years? Nay—get on with you."

Richard watched them leave before turning his attention to the bed. The bloodstains bore testimony to the girl's virginity better than any he'd ever seen. Jesu, could the boy not use her more gently than that? Mayhap he ought to say something to him. Nay, he decided, the girl seemed well-pleased so he ought to leave well enough alone. Hopefully, Roger had planted his seed and Harlowe would know the joys of children in its halls and courtyards. Aye, he'd been denied the pleasure of seeing his son grow, but he could yet know a child of his blood in Roger's sons or daughters. Unhurriedly he summoned a page to bring up the others. Then from the window he watched a boatman hand Roger and Eleanor into a flat wooden boat. He turned away content and waited. If his grandchildren resembled either their mother or their father, they would be beautiful.

"Salut!" Roger called out to a fellow crossing a narrow dirt lane. "Can you lead me to Gytha, Aeldrid's lady?" He fished in his pouch for a coin and showed it. The fellow pretended not to understand. Finally, in rusty Saxon remembered from his mother, Roger repeated the question, adding, "I am of her blood and I would see her."

"Save your money, Norman," was the terse reply.

Eleanor leaned over her pommel and addressed the man. "My husband was reared in Normandy, but he is of Saxon blood. Please—may we see the good dame?"

"All of her relatives are dead—most in war with your Normans."

"Aye, but she will know this one. Earl Richard sends us."

He appeared to consider. "All right," he decided, "if the earl sends you. My lord Richard is not like the rest of them."

They followed him to a house set apart from the small huts of the village. It was larger, more spacious, and better tended than the others, guarded by two house servants who maintained a vigil from a stall in front.

"Earl Richard sent them—he claims to be a kinsman of my lady's."

"By what name?"

"Roger—but the name will mean naught to her. Tell her I have the look of Glynis and see what she says."

A servant disappeared in the house for a few minutes. When he returned, he nodded to Roger. "Aye, she'll see you."

Roger dismounted and helped Eleanor down. Clutching her hand like two children facing discipline, he entered the house. His grandmother sat on a high chair at one end of the room and watched them with birdlike eyes. With a start, he realized that age had shrunk her until she was smaller than Eleanor. He'd had no set plan for revealing himself because he had not known her health and he'd not wanted to cause her harm. One look at the small lady told him that she was not one given to hysterics.

"Grandmother, I have brought my wife for your blessing. We were but wed yesterday at Harlowe."

"I have no living grandson, sir."

"I was born of your daughter Glynis in Gilbert of Nantes' stronghold in 1069."

"You are mistaken—my daughter lies dead at Harlowe, boy."

"Nay—Earl Richard had her grave examined but two days ago, Dame Gytha, and there is none there. Glynis was sold to Gilbert while my father went to fight the Wake, and Gilbert was supposed to have killed her. Instead, he took her back to Nantes with him."

"Your father?"

"Earl Richard."

The old woman looked at him sharply and beckoned him forward for a closer examination. "Aye, you have the look of him."

"And of her."

"I have no daughter."

"Your daughter lives at Abbeville."

"Aeldrid pronounced her dead when she went with the boy you call Earl Richard. A fine Saxon man he'd found for her and she would have none but the Norman's son." Her voice trailed off. "So you are her bastard then?"

"I am her son by her husband." He moved yet closer. "Grandmother, my mother lives and my father has hopes of bringing her back to Harlowe. He would have you there with her." Roger could not tell if he was even making her think on his words. "You have none other of your blood left and she has none but you and me. I cannot begin to tell you what she has suffered at the hands of the Normans, but if she proves willing to return, I would think you could find it in your heart to welcome her. Jesu! You are all that is left of your family!"

"She has suffered?"

"Aye—much. But it would be better for you to hear of it from her. I did but come to tell you she lives and to ask your blessing as your grandson."

"This is your wife then." She gestured to Eleanor and waited for Eleanor to come closer. "Ah, you are almost as small as I was—but not quite. I did not stand a full five feet. Turn around and let me look at you." Eleanor did as she was asked and then impulsively knelt at the old woman's feet. Gytha leaned forward to study her face. Her gnarled hands touched the hair that pulled back from Eleanor's face and then reached to lift the chin.

"Art a beauty, child. Norman?"

"Aye. My mother was Mary de Clare and my father Gilbert of Nantes."

"The same Gilbert that carried off my daughter?"

"Aye."

"Then how…?" The old woman's face turned to Roger.

"That too is a long tale. Suffice it to say that I have carried her off and wed with her. Her father would have given her to Robert of Belesme."

"Belesme!"

"You have heard of him?"

"Who has not? The Devil travels across the sea. And what sort of man would give his flesh and blood to such a one as that?"

"Gilbert."

"So the Saxon carries off the Norman this time, eh? Aeldrid would have liked that. Let me get down from here and call for wine and cakes, boy. I would hear the whole tale from you. Aye, a Saxon takes a Norman."

"Half Saxon," he reminded her over Eleanor's head. "You forget I am his son also."

"Pfaugh! You are my grandson and therefore Saxon."

Roger pressed his advantage. "Earl Richard names me his heir. I will rule where Aeldrid ruled. Aeldrid's blood will yet again hold sway over this land."

They passed much of the afternoon with Gytha, first telling her of their childhood at Nantes and then all that had befallen them since. She asked a few questions and bristled at mention of Old William, but otherwise seemed to mellow as they talked. Finally she stopped them and smiled at Eleanor. "It has made the circle now, or so it seems, with this Norman girl. From her, Harlowe will get an heir of both bloods and justice will have been done." She caught Roger's surprise at her acceptance and nodded. "Aye, Richard of Harlowe is a good man and rules well, but he is Norman and a reminder that we are a conquered people. Your son can claim some Saxon blood and the people will love him for it." Abruptly her manner changed. "I am tired now, but I would give you my blessing before you leave. May God in his wisdom grant you a long life and peace and happiness and give you strong sons to hold this land after you are gone."

"We would have you move to Harlowe."

"Nay, I belong among my husband's people. All I ask is that if I am alive when the babes are born, bring them to me so I may see those of Aeldrid's line."

"You will not be rid of me so easily," Roger promised. "I intend to come again and hear of my Saxon relatives. Besides, I would practice my Saxon tongue. Who knows? Mayhap Lea will learn it also."

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